


out of the frying pan and into the lube fountain

by carnivorousBelvedere



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Food Critic Karkat, Food Porn, Gold Kink, Jamfic, M/M, Restaurant Owner Dave, absolutely ridiculous, alpha dave opens a restaurant, hella kitchen, who ordered this side of feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 14:30:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15731325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnivorousBelvedere/pseuds/carnivorousBelvedere
Summary: If director Dave Strider opens a restaurant, food critic Karkat Vantas is inevitably going to eat there.---This started off as a rather absurd ideajam between notwest, ireallyloveicecream, PeachBriseadh and myself, and then I kind of took it to the next level.Don't say we didn't warn you.





	out of the frying pan and into the lube fountain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ireallyloveicecream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ireallyloveicecream/gifts), [PeachBriseadh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachBriseadh/gifts), [notwest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwest/gifts).



It’s two am. You’re high as shit. 

Somehow you managed to end up watching the Food Network, and it’s been playing back to back episodes of Cooks vs Cons and fucking Beat Bobby Flay. Cooks vs Cons is not actually a TV show about chefs against ex-convicts. Knowing that leaves you a little disappointed in the world. And why can’t Bobby Flay just let someone win for once?

Now when it comes to douchebags, you’re pretty high caliber. But this guy had you beat by a landslide. You’ve never wanted to punch someone’s face so badly. And that makes you wonder how much some people want to punch your face. Which is fine by you, you’ve probably got a punchable face. An attractive, yet punchable face. 

The programming changes and you’re not totally paying attention. It’s an interview. With a critic. 

Damn. He’s hot. And tall. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have a type and he was not the spitting image of that type. Someone who could fold you over and… well. 

Man, he’s got some kind of voice though. You wonder what it sounds like in person. God, you are really fucking blazed right now. 

One of the ten computers you have around your giant home is on the couch with you so you pull it over and open it up, googling the critics name. It’s unique and hard to forget. 

You end up falling down the rabbit hole of his posts. This guy is hilarious and not easily pleased. But he is sure as hell a snob. A hot snob, you think again. 

Most notably, all of his articles are in all caps. And they are savage. Like these are some supreme Nacho Libre takedowns you’re talking about here. You kind of wonder what his review of your movies would sound like. 

LE PETIT CHAT IS, FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, THE DEFINITION OF BLAND. IVE HAD BETTER FRENCH CUISINE FROM THE FROZEN AISLE OF YOUR LOCAL KROGERS. 

DID NOBODY TELL THEM THAT SNAILS SHOULD BE BASTED IN GARLIC BUTTER? WHO IN THE KITCHEN IS HYPERTENSIVE AND UNABLE TO USE SALT? THE LAST TIME I CHECKED, DUCK CONFIT NEEDS TO BE BRINED FOR UP TO THIRTY SIX HOURS, NOT TWO SECONDS. 

WHEN THEY SAY STEAK-FRITES, THEY DONT ACTUALLY MEAN STEAK FRIES. PLEASE TAKE NOTE. IF I WANTED STEAK FRIES I WOULD GO TO RED ROBIN. 

THE BEEF BOURGUIGNON SAUCE TASTED LIKE MARMITE. I THINK THEY BOUGHT THEIR MACARONS FROM THE LOCAL MALL. 

I WOULD RECOMMEND THE OWNER ACTUALLY GO TO FRANCE SOMETIME. 

You keep watching the programming as they visit several high end restaurants in New York. 

He talks about the different things recognized in ranking restaurants and a few of his favorite things. The guy is a meat expert. You had no clue there were so many things involved in making good meat. He’s also very expressive, so much that you could watch him describe food for days. You’re not sure if the hunger you’re feeling is for him or the food he’s talking about. Probably both. 

Eventually the program changes again and you feel oddly disappointed. Bring back the hot guy, you want to yell at your screen. 

Instead, you google “cost of opening a Michelin Star restaurant.” Man, what a highdea. 

You take in the info and then lay your head back on the couch. Then you look around your living room, the vaulted ceilings, the framed SBAHJ posters. 

You think about your late nights like this spent between being utterly fucked up and making weird foods with the shit you ordered from Whole Foods Instacart. 

Fuck it. 

You’ve got nothing to lose. 

—-

You manage to find a couple of chefs who share your vision and an architect and interior designer who can make your plans come to life. 

When it finally comes together, _hella kitchen_ makes a media firestorm. Everyone thinks it’s genius, making a restaurant level spoof of your movies. Honestly, you just wanted fancy stoner food. You even take personal cooking classes for three months and you’re actually getting pretty good at it. Gourmet stoner food, at least. 

And did you really go heavy with fancy stoner food. 

You work with an expert to source everything from the direct origin. It’s exotic and a little bit obscene but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Gold foil, Greek saffron, Gilroy garlic, real brioche, burger meat made from Angus short rib, freshly jammed rhubarb-raspberry jelly, Mediterranean butter lettuce, yak butter from the Himalayas, Parisian cheeses, handmade pasta made with Italian flours, New Orleans andouille sausages. And then some more gold foil because why the hell not? 

The first thing you make is a peanut butter rhubarb jelly bacon burger between brioche buns. 

It’s delicious and you aren’t even stoned. 

By the time you and your chef are done the menu looks like the god baby of Guy Fieri’s American Kitchen and Bar and French Laundry. 

It’s perfect. 

—

Most of the media firestorm has died down in the first six months, during which you take your role as restaurant owner very seriously between going around shaking hands, and mostly being outrageously drunk on the job. You’ve got a taste for 50 year-aged Glenfiddich, who could blame you? 

The first set of reviews are a mishmash of praise and disgust at the decadence of your establishment, which you had kind of told the designer to go for “Cheesecake Factory on LSD” and they sure delivered. You look forward to walking into your Greco-Roman-Egyptian-Baroque-Bauhaus postmodern red hellscape every day. 

But the food? Mouth entertainment and you won’t let anyone else tell you otherwise. You’re pretty sure Buzzfeed would film at least five videos to cover it all if the place weren’t so damn expensive but that’s just the cost of getting the freshest shit available. 

Seriously, it’s a kush collective munchie wet dream, in between the designer burger list, bacon macaroni and cheese, waffle sandwiches, salmon belly sushi, melted burrata pizzas that rivals Nino Bellissima, flower petal salads and handmade desserts. 

The cost is a downside of covering all your burger buns with gold dust but you wouldn’t budge on that. 

All of the desserts are named after kama sutra positions. There’s certainly a small bit of media ire over that but it’s the parents fault if someone brings their kid in there. 

It’s a slow dusky Tuesday evening when your restaurant manager calls you up, as they are directed to do so when recognizable critics come in, or for shit just generally hitting the fan. 

“Sir, uh, Karkat Vantas just walked in.”

Your blood runs simultaneously hot and cold. You’re at home right now, it’s a fucking Tuesday! 

“I’m on my way,” is all you say before you sprint to your closet and pull on your favorite silk red suit. 

Then you stop and call your manager again. “If everything isn’t perfect I will personally flay everyone in the kitchen.” They have _better_ lit up all the candles. If there aren’t fresh flowers on that table when you get there you’re going to go full on presidential orange Cheeto puff on someone when you yell “You’re fired!” 

And then you’re on your way. You do the the fifteen minute drive in seven. You have never felt more alive.

Today is the day when you _really_ earn your stripes as a restaurant owner.

When you get to your establishment you sneak in the back door and call your maitre d’ back to show you where Vantas is sitting. He’s not even hiding that he’s there on business, with a full notepad and everything. 

“What did he order?” you ask your head of kitchen staff. 

He ordered the caviar-crudo, the petal plum salad, charcoal roasted lamb burger, and, you’re most relieved to find, your favorite dessert on the menu: the champagne sorbet topped with fried guava and the house secret ingredient topping of your own personal recipe. Or choice, better said. 

The Strider Special. 

With all the grace and splendor you were ever born with you straighten your jacket and head out there to make your presence known.

“Hello, Dave Strider at your service.” Oh, is he someone you want to _service_. “How’s everything tasting so far?”

Vantas lifts his eyes off the notepad and you notice them narrow as he takes in everything from your hair to your patented shades to the suit that is so ostentatious you manage to blend in to the surroundings. His critical eye coupled with finally seeing his face you’ve only seen on television screens makes you feel transparent. 

He’s got dark hair, dark features, a husky body frame with broad shoulders, and the most incredible pair of lips you’ve seen in your life. You want to get up close and personal with them just for science. They are literally that perfect. 

It’s a little more than that, really. You want to watch him _eat_. You want to watch those lips swallow something. See them close around your fingers. 

Sliding over your dick. 

You are out of control and have no intentions of stopping. You’re reminded of your mantra.

You have nothing to lose.

His voice is somehow like dipping into a pool of glass and shattering it at the same time. You’ve never heard such a beautiful sound. “If you’re going to beg me to not write about this don’t even try, I’m here because my boss asked me to come.”

Oh, so he knows you know. Game on, motherfucker. 

You grin and pull out the chair across from him, earning a mix of glare and confusion. He’s still got a pen in his hand over the notepad with the half eaten caviar crudo plated in front of him. The maitre d’ is across the room so you wave them over again. 

Unable to take your eyes off of him, you gaze at Vantas across the table as you speak. “Can we get a bottle of Garrus Domaines Sacha Lichine original 2006 and a bucket of ice?”

The critic’s jaw falls open. Your face splits into a grin. 

Vantas shuts his mouth and shakes his head, darting his disbelieving eyes around your face. You’re not if the look is for the expensive wine or for the fact that you’re sitting with him. “Do you… even understand how this works? You can’t like, pay me off here.”

“Hey man you know what they say about assuming stuff. For all you know I could be sitting here because you’re a hot piece of ass and I can only see me spending the rest of the night with you.” The sooner the maitre d’ comes back with the rosé the better. They better be moving like there’s a burner under their ass. 

“The fuck?” He furrows his brows and writes something on his notepad. “I sincerely doubt that that’s the case,” he says dryly, clearly not taking you seriously. 

“Well then, would you at least introduce yourself? Otherwise I’ll be forced to call you something else, like sexy.” 

His eyes flick up to your face and back down, and then roll. “Karkat Vantas, obviously,” he mutters, still scribbling. “You really shouldn’t be doing this, it’s fucking annoying for us. You’re being annoying.” 

You put a hand over your heart. “Baby, I’m different,” you say and then lean forward on elbows. “So, Karkat, or sexy, still can’t decide which one I like better, have you got any questions for me?”

Karkat snorts, still unimpressed. “Where do I even fucking begin?”

You know it’s rhetorical and smile as warmly as possible. Need to make your guest feel welcome, right? He at least seems to have accepted you’re staying right there in that seat. 

“So which dessert did you order? You know I’m kind of a dessert before dinner guy myself, so the fact that I’m sitting here talking to you instead of eating should say something. God you’re honestly wasting your time, I wish you would just taste me already.” 

You watch as he pauses his writing to comprehend your statement, and then he leans back to look at you. “Excuse me?”

As if on cue his waiter comes by with the second course salad and the bucket for the rosé. Two glasses are poured while Karkat stares at you, somewhat angrily. 

You just smile at him and thank your staff, your hand going for the wine glass. 

You lift it in his direction with one hand and with your other you pull down your sunglasses and wink. 

He just blinks at you. 

Suddenly, he comes back to life and deliberately takes a sip of water. Then he dives in to the second course, seeming to deliberately ignore eye contact while also looking incredibly angry. 

He takes a bite of plum. 

“We source our plums from--” you start to say, but he interrupts you. 

“You realize if you keep running your mouth I can’t do my fucking job. I don’t want to hear your garbage about where it came from. It won’t save your travesty of a menu.” 

He seems pretty flustered now. You’ll tone it down for a little bit. Especially because you want to watch him actually eat his food. Which is not weird at all. Those lips are going to drive you absolutely mad.

You would pretty much do anything to get him to throw you against a wall. You needed this guy to raw you on this table five minutes ago. Unfortunately that’s not a experience money can buy. 

So for now you’ll sit back and watch. He’s gone back to trying the dish and taking notes, concentrating on what he’s tasting. You can’t take your eyes off of his face and your eyes dip down to his lips every time something passes through them. Just even seeing his throat move when he swallows is causing strange twisting flares of warmth in your lower body. 

You find yourself subconsciously leaning forward towards him. He continues to eat, and his eyes flick up to regard you between his bites and notes. 

Finally he’s just writing so you perch on the edge of the table and wait with a small smile. 

He sets his pen down and seems to settle on speaking to you again after a few long moments. “Do you always do this?” 

“What, sit down with critics? No, just the cute ones.” Well, that didn’t take long. 

“Are you fucking serious?” He blows a puff of air.

You just smile at him. “Very. You know there’s really only one critic’s writings that I’ve ever read.”

“If you’re going to talk to me about how Jonathon Gold and I differ in philosophy I don’t want to hear it.”

“No dude, definitely yours. I’ve never been so excited to see someone eat here before.”

He just eyes you and they narrow suspiciously. “You have a really strange way of showing it.”

You both lapse into a quick silence. “Are you excited for your main course, entree, il secondo? I can’t wait for you to try my meat.”

He full on face palms and says “Oh my god,” into his hands. “Why why why why was I asked to eat here why did I know some stupid shit like this was going to happen the whole premise of this place is stupid and now I’m sitting with you, oh famous director, don’t you have something else to do?”

“Just you.”

He slams his fist on the table. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I mean I’d like to think I’m Dave Strider, director and restaurateur extraordinaire but we can always add ‘incredibly sexy’ to the list.”

He just scoffs and checks his watch. “This literally can’t be over soon enough,” he mutters. 

“That’s a shame. I’ve pretty much dreamed of you coming in here ever since I opened this place.” 

“ _Why_?”

“You inspired it.”

“I did WHAT?” 

Thankfully, his main course is now coming out. How timely, you’re proud of them. 

He looks down at the burger placed in front of him and sighs. “Is the gold dust _really_ necessary?” 

“Of-fucking-course it is.” 

He eyes you across the table and then scoops it up and takes a bite. 

Really? Eating a goddamn burger should not be this hot. 

“Is my meat to your liking? I thought the rosé would be a nice pairing.” 

He chokes, and quickly drinks more water to cover it up. When he swallows he rasps, “ _Please_ shut your mouth, I don’t even have words for how badly you are fucking this up right now.” 

You sigh heavily and make a show of rolling your eyes behind your shades before picking up the wine glass and sipping some more.

You watch him taste the gold dust, the fries, and take extra time with the lamb. And then he goes back to the notes.

He’s still writing and you can’t wait anymore. “So they told me you ordered the Strider Special for dessert.” 

He pauses his writing for one second and makes a consternated face. “I didn’t,” he pauses to recall. “The dessert I ordered was the ‘Milk and Water Embrace’. Your dessert names were somewhat creative.” 

“Yeah man. Only my favorite seated sex position in the books.” 

The words register. His eyes narrow to small bullseyes on you. “Please tell me you didn’t name your dessert menu after _sex positions_.”

“Oh, yes I did.”

He barely even seems surprised anymore, he just grits his teeth and keeps writing notes. 

“I will begrudgingly admit that I am impressed with your lamb. It unusually lacks the gamey taste.”

“Just for you, meat man.”

He’s still glaring at you. It feels unseasonably warm in your restaurant. 

“What did you mean when you said I _inspired_ this place.” 

“Exactly that man. I saw your face, read your words, and was like, I’m gonna open a restaurant so that one day Karkat Vantas can walk up in there and sit himself down for a fine ass meal for his fine ass self. And shit man today is that day. Dinner’s on me by the way.” You gesticulate along with your words. 

“You literally-- You can’t-- Okay don’t expect me to believe all that, because I won’t, but even still don’t be ridiculous. I get paid to do this for work.” 

“Nah man consider it as a thank you for gracing this establishment with your hot bod. But mostly because I kind of want this to be a date. Can this be a date?” 

“No! What the fuck!” He actually groans but reaches out and takes a glass of the wine. Oh, Vantas, you shouldn’t show your hand like that. 

You watch him try it. He looks impressed. You knew he would like it, only the best for the best snob. 

Finally, they bring the dessert with two spoons. You just want to kiss whoever did that. His waiter is getting a raise. 

He takes a spoon and digs in to scoop some of the ice cream, guava and sauce. 

You can’t help yourself, you take a spoonful too and wait until until he’s glancing up at you again to slip it in your mouth, flip the spoon over, and make a show of cleaning it off with your tongue. 

You swear for a second his face falters. 

He shakes it off and goes in for another spoonful of champagne ice cream. Then he tries the guava.

And then he tries the sauce on top. 

He makes a face.

“This is sweet and viscous but it’s not honey. I can’t place the texture, but it tastes like passionfruit. Yeah, that’s it. It’s actually pretty nice. What is it?”

You pop the spoon out of your mouth. “Oh, that’s lube.” It goes back in. 

He coughs, a large full body spit that he stands up into. You watch several expressions cross his face: anger, disbelief, shock, horror, confusion, all in quick succession.

Finally, he settles on anger.

He inhales deeply. Oh boy. 

“You! Come over here--”

“I just couldn’t stay away.” 

“You flaunt your excessive wealth—“

“Uh, I own this place, duh.”

“—look fucking ridiculous—“

“I look great in this suit, don’t lie.”

“—verbally and sexually assault my ears—“

“Was it soft tenor of my voice?”

“—and then to top it off you trick me into eating _lube_!”

“Alright, well, you kinda got me there.” 

He’s just standing there, breathing heavy, and you’re pretty sure everyone in the restaurant is looking at you. 

You smile up at him.

He grabs his notebook and starts to leave. “I can’t do this,” he growls. 

“Wait, I still need your number!” you call after him as you watch him walk away. 

“What about your bill?” you try again when he doesn’t look.

“It’s a good thing you’re footing it, because no one can afford to eat here anyways!” 

You settle back into your chair and keep eating ice cream.

\----

WHEN ONE SAYS THE LUDICROUS WORDS ‘HELLA KITCHEN’ TOGETHER, YOU WOULD MUCH RATHER HOPE THAT THEY ARE REFERRING TO A COOKING AREA IN THE BAY AREA OF NORTH CALIFORNIA AND NOT ACTUALLY AN ESTABLISHED RESTAURANT. UNFORTUNATELY, IT’S THE LATTER THAT’S TRUE. 

‘HELLA KITCHEN’ IS A RESTAURANT OWNED BY INFAMOUS DIRECTOR DAVE STRIDER ON A PROMINENT CORNER IN THE SPRAWLING CITY OF LOS ANGELES. IT IS SADLY FAR TOO LATE FOR SOMEONE TO TELL HIM HE SHOULD STICK TO HIS DAY JOB. 

IT IS A STRANGE NAME INDEED FOR A RESTAURANT THAT SHOULD REQUIRE A CREDIT CHECK BEFORE YOU CAN EVEN BE SEATED. 

PRIOR THE EVENING I ATE THERE, I HAD NEVER LEFT A RESTAURANT WONDERING IF I SHOULD CALL MY LAWYER. 

DAVE STRIDER, DID YOU EVER THINK THAT INTERIOR DESIGN SHOULDN’T BE CAPABLE OF CAUSING MIGRAINES? OVERALL, IT IS COLORED WITH SHADES OF YELLOW, FUCK YOU, AND RED. IT IS AN AMORPHOUS MESS OF SHODDY ARCHITECTURE.

ONCE YOU MANAGE TO MAKE IT TO YOUR TABLE WITHOUT A SUDDEN BOUT OF SEIZURES THEN YOU MAY HAVE THE UNPLEASANT OPPORTUNITY TO VIEW THE WHIRLING KALEIDOSCOPE SHITSTORM OF A MENU THAT SOMEHOW DOESN’T EXPLODE WITH SPARKLES AND GLITTER WHEN YOU OPEN IT. EVEN THEN, YOU HAVE TO PROCESS APPETIZERS STARTING AT A 50$ MINIMUM. 

IF THERE IS ONE THING DAVE STRIDER DOES NOT KNOW THE DEFINITION OF, IT’S RESTRAINT.

DID YOU EVER CONSIDER, DAVE STRIDER, THAT JUST BECAUSE YOUR CAVIAR IS FIFTY-YEAR AGED, IT MAY NOT ACTUALLY BE GOOD? DID YOU EVER CONSIDER THAT FRESH FISH OVERTAKES THE NEED FOR IT TO BE SLICED BY A 3-MICHELIN STAR SUSHI MASTER CHEF WHO LIVES IN JAPAN? 

WHEN YOU FINISHED YOUR APPETIZER MENU, DID YOU PANIC THAT YOU MENTIONED LAMBDA PREMIUM ULTRA EXTRA VIRGIN OLIVE OIL THREE TIMES ALREADY? 

WHEN YOU ARRANGED YOUR SEASONAL SALADS, DID IT CROSS YOUR MIND THAT PLUMS GROWN ON THE KENNEDY FARM WERE ONLY A LITTLE EXCESSIVE? 

WHEN YOU PICKED YOUR ENTREES, WAS IT NECESSARY TO MENTION YOUR CAYENNE PEPPERS GROWN BY KANYE? 

DAVE STRIDER, DID YOU EVER THINK THAT MAYBE PEOPLE SAT DOWN IN YOUR ESTABLISHMENT THEY DIDN’T WANT TO BE SEXUALLY ASSAILED BY YOUR MENU? DID YOU EVER CONSIDER THAT NAMING YOUR DESSERTS AFTER SEX POSITIONS SHOULD MAKE YOU LIABLE FOR ASSAULT? 

WHY WAS THE MENU SO TALL BUT THE FONT SO SMALL? SHOULD YOUR ENTREES HAVE READ LIKE A DESCRIPTION AND NOT A DISSERTATION? 

‘NEW ZEALAND SOURCED CHARCOAL LAMB WITH LONG CLAWSON WHITE STILTON GOLD CHEDDAR, BUTTER LETTUCE GROWN AT WALDEN RIDGE FARM, KRISHNA COW MILK HOUSE FERMENTED YOGURT TZATZIKI SAUCE, HIMALAYAN SOURCED YAK BUTTER SAUTEED RED ONIONS AND HOMEMADE GILROY GARLIC BRIOCHE BUNS.’ 

WHY DID I THINK YOUR CRUDO RESEMBLED DISEASED HUMAN SKIN? WHAT CAUSED IT TO HAVE THE CONSISTENCY OF PLASTIC? HOW COME I FORGET IT AS SOON AS THE PLATE LET MY FIELD OF VIEW? 

WHO MADE YOUR PLUM SALAD STICKY LIKE A COLLEGE FRATERNITY’S FLOOR? WHY WAS THE HOUSE GARDEN WATERCRESS SO TASTELESS? HOW DID YOUR AGED BALSAMIC DRESSING BECOME SO BRUTALLY ACIDIC? 

WHY DID I MISTAKE MY BURGER FOR JAY-Z’S NECKLINE? HOW DID YOU MANAGE TO MAKE A RUSTIC DISH FEEL LIKE IT BELONGED AS A CENTERPIECE AT ALAIN DUCASSE? HOW COME I WONDERED THAT YOUR FRIES WERE TOO COLD AND OIL-SOGGY TO ENJOY? 

WHY IS YOUR CHAMPAGNE ICE CREAM MORE LIKE A WATERY ICE CONE THAN ICE CREAM? WHY ARE YOUR IMPORTED GUAVAS SO SOUR? WHY DID YOU INCORPORATE SEXUAL LUBRICANTS INTO A MEAL?  
HOW CAN YOUR FOOD BE SO EXPENSIVE BUT THE TASTE SO AWFUL?

WHY ARE YOUR MOVIES TERRIBLE, AND YOUR RESTAURANT EVEN WORSE?

THESE ARE ALL QUESTIONS I SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT TO ASK WHILE DAVE STRIDER ATTENDED TO MY EVERY WHIM. 

WHILE I SAT ACROSS FROM HIM THAT FATEFUL EVENING, DID IT EVER CROSS HIS MIND THAT I WAS NOT INTERESTED IN HIS COMPANY? WHY DID HIS TASTE IN WINE SCREAM OF MONEY INSTEAD OF AN ACTUAL PALATE? WAS HE HOPING TO DISTRACT ME FROM THE HORRIBLE DECOR? HIS COMPLETE AND UTTER FAILURE AS A RESTAURANT OWNER?

WHAT KIND OF DESPERATION DOES IT TAKE FOR A RESTAURATEUR TO SIT WITH A FOOD CRITIC? JUST WHEN I THOUGHT I WAS DONE BEING ASSAULTED BY THE MENU AND DECOR, STRIDER DECIDED HE NEEDED A TURN.

I WILL SPARE YOU THE DETAILS AND MYSELF THE PAIN OF RECALLING THEM.

IF I WORK EXTREMELY HARD AND AM A LITTLE LUCKY MAYBE ONE DAY I WILL FORGET. 

—-

It’s a brutal takedown. It’s incredible. You immediately have it printed and framed in your restaurant.

It really doesn’t get any better than this, folks. 

As a completely innocent gesture of appreciation, you manage to get ahold of his publisher to discuss bringing Vantas a gift. His boss laughs for ten whole minutes when she realizes who you are, and then wholeheartedly agrees to give you the critic’s home address, email, and phone number so you can deliver it accordingly. You just hit the jackpot. 

You imagine she’s wiping gleeful tears out of her eyes when she tells you she’ll make him be available to intercept the gift tomorrow around six, and she agrees not to tell him what it’s for. 

He doesn’t know it yet, but you just booked Vantas a one-way ticket to your own personal brand of Flavortown. 

—-

“Hey,” you say as you smile, arms loaded with bags, up at the absolutely slack-jawed face of a one Karkat Vantas.

“No. God no. What the fuck do you want? Are you here to hurt me? I’ve never heard of someone wanting to murder after a bad review but I can’t say I’d be surprised. You deserved every word and more but my publisher wouldn’t let me. I had to request occupational therapy after the other night, I’m literally in recovery from being in your presence.” 

“Nah man, didn’t she tell you? This is a thank you gift. I loved the review, by the way. Best thing I’ve ever read in my life. It’s already hanging in the restaurant.” You hold up your arms with the bags. “But don’t worry, no murder here, just some fucking good food because I am about to make you dinner.”

He rubs his eyes. “Are you suffering from frontal lobe damage? I spent a good portion of the other night telling the world how shitty I thought your food was.”

“Yeah, it was a little unnecessarily harsh but I can’t lie, you didn’t look that horrified when you were eating it. I also really wanted to see you again. So, uh, dinner?” 

“You wanted to see me again? That’s why you’re here? Really?”

“Absolutely.” You keep smiling at him, watching whatever processing going down in his brain. He purses his lips. 

“Why?”

“Because I think you’re hot as hell and I want to get to know you.” 

He frowns and scoffs incredulously. “I don’t fucking believe this,” he mutters as he walks away from the door but doesn’t close it.

He didn’t close it. You’re in. You do a mental fist pump because you can’t with the bags as you hop through the door and close it with your leg. You follow him into his kitchen area and set the bags down on a counter. 

He hovers there, keeping a five foot minimum distance from you. “Well?” he says. 

“Uh, can I?” You gesture towards the kitchen. 

“You invite yourself into my home and then ask permission? Really?”

It’s all the permission you need to start pulling food and pans out. You didn’t want to dirty his own stuff, you came prepared as could be. 

“Why don’t you go get comfortable man? It’s your home.” 

He crosses his arms. “Forgive me if I want to watch a little, as long as you can keep your mouth shut.” 

“It’s going to be hard to concentrate knowing those eyes are on me, man.” 

He sighs heavily, looks to the side and uncrosses and crosses his arms. “You know you can drop the act right? I’m not editing my review.”

“There’s no act, Karkat. What you’re getting is pure unfiltered Strider desire.” You keep pulling stuff out of the bags and arrange them over the counter while glancing at him. 

He purses his lips. “Yeah, sure.”

You flip around to face him fully. “Do you not believe me?”

His eyes narrow. “Of course I don’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“I— that’s irrelevant. Either way, I didn’t walk into your restaurant expecting to be propositioned.” 

“Yeah, okay. But do you think I’m hot?” Your lips quirk into a half smile. 

He sucks in a breath like he’s been punched and flusters visibly. You swear you can see a sudden dusting of color under his dark skin as he struggles for words but then seems to catch himself, “That is especially irrelevant.” 

You can’t help but grin at him and his shifting eyes seem to latch on to that. His face relaxes ever so slightly and then he looks away again.

You turn away from him and busy yourself with chopping lettuce. Honestly, this is the first time you’ve struggled to speak to him as the words catch in your throat. “I dunno, I’m not really good at this. All I know is I saw you a long time ago and all I could think was you’re the kind of guy I wanna keep up all night and then make Gordon Ramsey eggs in the morning for.” 

You turn your head ever so slightly and peak out the side of your shades to see him and almost instantly regret it. He’s looking at you with something like wonder. It leaves you breathless as it strikes up the coalescing warmth that’s been flowing through you ever since you sat with him the other night. And he’s just so goddamn close, several feet away from you but the distance in his kitchen feels smaller, like the world is compressing upon you both. 

It would be so easy to push him up against the counter and lean up on your toes to kiss him. The thought of it coupled with being in his home that smells so strongly of _him_ drives you a little wild. The warmth is like an ache now. You turn back to the food in front of you and fantasize about him coming up behind you and running his hands down your chest, unbuttoning your shirt, and letting his hands drift down to undo your belt. Thank god you are facing away from him, otherwise your erection would be quite obvious by now. Well, it’s pretty obvious as is, he just can’t see it. You settle into the feeling, Little Strider is not going down anytime soon. 

You’ve prepared a meal of baguette with your favorite burrata to start, a foie gras terrine tomato salad, lobsters flash poached in butter with a sweet basil emulsion, and salt-slab wagyu beef with glazed onions and thinly sliced mushrooms. If you set it up right, you should be able to knock it out in thirty minutes by yourself. Oh, and there is a dessert, but that should be a surprise shouldn’t it?

You turn on the oven and set a block of cold butter in the pan to melt for the lobsters. In the other you dump olive oil and begin simmering the sauce for the onions. You align four plates total for both of you as you certainly intend to share. The baguette and burrata are easiest to plate. You add some garnish and with flakey salt and pepper. Done.

You wash the radish sprouts and butter lettuce, dice the tomatoes and arrange them on the plate with several dollops of the yogurt dressing and place the terrine in the middle. 

By now the oven is ready and you slide the salt block in with the meat on top. 

Then you busy yourself with the lobster. You proceed with flash frying them in the butter. Between that and the simmering sauce with the onion and mushrooms his house is smelling delicious. 

Oh, and his boss was also kind enough to tell you what his favorite wine it. You hear a small noise from Karkat as you pull it out of the bag and finally look at him again. His eyes are bearing into you with an intensity you have never seen before. You’d gotten so into making the food you kind of forgot he was even there. 

Your eyes meet for several long seconds. He shakes his head and comes out of his temporary stupor. “I’ll be in the dining room,” he murmurs and slips out the door. You watch him leave, a little sad about it. 

You turn back to your food. The meat is halfway done and in between you finish the lobsters with the sweet basil emulsion. The salt block comes out of the oven and you remove the sizzling meat slices and plate them in two layered rows and circle it with the onion and mushroom mix. There’s a fancy word for this and you really can’t remember it right now. 

When you bring the first two plates of bread and salad, he’s on his laptop and closes it as he sees you. “Unfortunately I can’t give you the full four course experience,” you admit as you place the two plates and the silverware down in front of him. 

“I figured,” is all he says as he eyes you and then looks down at the plates. He seems uncharacteristically at a loss for words. 

“Much appreciated,” you smile and quickly swing back into the kitchen for the wine and wine glasses. You pour two glasses and then bring out the the other two courses. 

When you walk back with them you notice he’s already working on his wine. Finally, you slide into the chair next to him. It’s painfully quiet now in his house. 

He seems to be waiting for you and his gaze feels so much more intense than the other night. 

You take the glass and hold it out in front of you. Hesitating but then taking the cue, he clinks his against yours. It rings out and seems to startle you both.

Picking up your fork, you busy yourself with scooping the creamy burrata onto the bread slice. “So what got you into this food critic thing?” You ask, genuinely interested. 

His eyes flick up to you and he leans forward to pick up a slice and spread on the buttery cheese. “I’m surprised you aren’t starting with something like ‘how do you like your cream.’”

A toothy smile flashes across your face. “Yeah, well, some guy told me I should look up the definition of restraint.” 

Once more his eyes meet yours and there’s something that sizzles hot and fast between you like a bourbon flash-fire over butter. 

He breaks it first and exhales softly. “Started as a food blogger for a hobby. It just kind of spun out of control from there. Not much else to say.” 

“Do you like writing brutal takedowns?”

“If they _deserve_ it,” Karkat says again. “Which you did. You were so far fucking out of line my head is still spinning. Hell, I don’t even know why I let you in just now, I must have a concussion from all your goddamn whiplash. You had that thrashing coming and you know it.” 

You smile and finish your baguette slice. 

“Can I ask you something?” he says suddenly. 

“Anything, sweetcheeks.”

He huffs at the pet name. “I’m serious, what in the world possessed you to use lube as a topping and not just like a regular syrup? It’s listed as “water based topping” on your menu.”

“Alright, honestly? If you were bored and rich and horny and liked food, wouldn’t you want to make the best tasting lube out there?”

“And serve it on food? God no.” 

“Hey now, I tasted ten different syrups, coulis, reductions, you name it for that dish and I still liked my sauce the best.”

He groans, exasperated. “God, fine, okay. I’m just going to chalk it up to your extremely dubious taste.” He stabs some duck and tomato with a fork. “Why couldn’t you have just settled for selling it?”

“Well now, where’s the fun in that?”

He sighs and follows hit bite with some wine. 

“I mysteriously noticed that you avoided saying you liked the lamb in your review,” you point out. 

He avoids your eyes now. “You were pretty fucking awful.”

“Mmm yeah, so I’m told. I mean, was it really that bad though?”

He takes some more duck. “You know some people like to enjoy a meal in silence, one of the many perks of this job is eating alone.” 

“Doesn’t it get lonely?” you blurt. 

His eyes flash up to you and away. “That’s not the point,” he murmurs, followed by another sip of wine. “You can’t just sit down and say shit to people like that over dinner and expect it to be okay.” 

“What about this one?” You ask, referring to the meal in front of you. 

There’s a beat of silence. “I’m still deciding.”

It’s rough and low as he says it and the sound of his voice on your ears like that sends a heated shudder up your back. You shakily grab the wine and toss some more back. 

“How do you like it so far?” You ask to break the silence, barely alleviated by the sound of forks clinking on plates. 

“I’m impressed, Strider. Very good variety.”

“You can call me Dave, you know.”

“Nah.” A pause. “I do need to say it lacks your propensity for gold, however.” 

Your smirk. “Dessert still needs to be served.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Of course I wasn’t going to escape that.” 

You try not to let your excitement show so you push on your conversation. “What’s your favorite restaurant?”

“Don’t have one in this line of work. Are you kidding me? How could I ever pick.”

“Maybe mine will make the list one day?”

“Never. Did anyone ever teach you that just because something is expensive doesn’t make it good?”

You shrug. “Listen man. I know what my restaurant is, and you knew it before you walked in. So the fuck what I have a pizza that goes for five hundred dollars? It’s a novelty like anything else.” 

He tilts his head to the side and considers it. “Some people like the taste of money I suppose.”

“Right you are,” you affirm. 

You both lapse into silence again and you take a moment to shamelessly watch his throat as he swallows. He tears a piece of meat with his teeth. “Wow, that’s good,” he moans a little bit and _oh, fuck_. You need to hear him make that sound again or you will never be complete. 

He notices you staring, as you haven’t moved to take another bite of food, your lips in a tight line with your back straight. “What?”

You shake your head and lean forward to take a bite of lobster and internally flail for words. “I bet you taste better,” tumbles out of your mouth. 

“Dude, don’t start this again please,” he says but doesn’t look angry. He’s avoiding your eyes again. “I kind of liked having, you know, an actual fucking conversation.” 

“I mean I like… conversations. The exchanging of tongues, that is.”

“Please, shut up and eat your fucking food.” 

You oblige him but watch as he continues to steal glances at you. Melting into your seat seems totally plausible with how hot his gaze is. 

He tears another piece of meat with a particularly pointy canine. You imagine it sinking into your neck, sliding down your collarbone… “See now? Was that so hard?”

“I am hard,” you say and immediately regret it as his face does that multiple expression change again. 

“ _What?_ ” 

“Uh, yeah,” you say and suddenly your mouth feels too dry from the tannins in the wine. “I’ve been hard ever since I saw you. You kind of get me out of control.”

“You don’t really mean that, do you?” His voice is strained and he seems kind of transfixed. 

You run a nervous hand through your hair. “God, Karkat, fuck, you’re killing me. Yes I’m being serious, you make me harder than a goddamn diamond.”

He doesn’t respond. 

There is one slice of wagyu left. Instead of trying to say more words, you spear it with your fork and hold it out to him. 

“Have the last one,” you manage. 

Still at a loss for words, his eyes tracing you up and down, he leans forward and opens his mouth around the thin slice. He closes his lips, those perfect round lips, around the fork and you stare at them, very aware of your own mouth hanging slightly open in arousal. You hadn’t been intending for him to do that but oh, thank goodness he did. He slides back off the fork, his mouth full, and he chews for a second before swallowing very thickly. 

You gasp audibly as his throat moves. His eyes are locked on your shades. 

“I think it’s uh, time for dessert.”

You grab your wine glass, your second fill, and chug it while getting to your feet. It’s too late to back out now, you are in too deep. Your body might as well be a generator with how much it’s humming right now. You immediately notice his eyes zeroing in on your crotch and you busy yourself with piling plates and silverware into a stack, leaving the wine glasses on the table. Time to whip out of there, into the kitchen and throw everything back into the bags. 

And then you strip until you are standing in Karkat’s kitchen completely naked. Yeah, still pretty damn erect. 

You reach for the final objects: honey, the signature gold flakes, and whisky-soaked cherries. 

You open the jar of honey and tip it to the side. The honey dribbles out and you scoop it out and run it up and down your length. Some of it drips on the floor. Hell, it seems like it’s just going to keep dripping off the end. Need to add some more to account for that. Then you open the gold flakes and shake some into your hands. Delicately, you arrange them in the honey. 

Your dick is honey soaked and gold flecked and you have never been harder. 

From the can of soaked cherries you pull one out, stem and all, and hold it between your fingers. And then you walk back to his dining room and hover in the doorway, leaning one forearm on the door jamb. 

“Hey,” you say, and take in his face.

His jaw slackens and you can tell his eyes are focused on your hardened, glittering cock. 

“Do you… what the… do you really expect me to…” he murmurs but can’t seem to find the words. He’s got gripped hands balled into fists in front of him. 

He stops talking for one second to bite his lower lip, and then run a slow, considering tongue over his upper lip. Your dick jumps. 

“Did you… did you plan for this?” he asks. 

“Yes, no, maybe?” you laugh, tight and breathless. “Listen dude, you’ve just got this fucking amazing mouth and I don’t think I can handle one more second not knowing what it feels like.”

Honey drips as you stride over to him and lean down until you are eye to eye with him. “So come and get your dessert,” you say and put the cherry between your teeth. 

He grabs your face and pulls you in, and goes to bite the cherry stem. 

“Nuh-uh,” you manage from between your teeth.

He gets the point. His tongue whips out and takes the cherry from between your teeth. The moan you release is entirely uninhibited as you finally taste him. You follow his mouth, the cherry stem still sticking out the corner, and bite it off, slipping it back into your mouth. 

You remove the knotted stem not even fifteen seconds later and he stares.

You toss it onto the table and lean up so that your dripping, candied erection is sticking only inches in front of his face. 

“Why should I,” he says in a whisper. His face betrays him, you can read his arousal plain as day. 

“My dick is covered in about seven hundred dollars, maybe more.” 

He actually laughs weakly but it’s strained. He looks half like he wants it, half like he wants to cry into his hands. 

“Karkat, _please_ , you’re fucking killing me here. I promise I’ll make it worth your while, just, goddamn.” You’ve been needy before. You’ve been desperate. 

And this moment is topping all of those, but it all feels worth it when he leans forward and licks the dripping edge of your dick. You wonder for one delirious second how the salty flavor of your precum mixes with the honey. 

It must be good because he leans forward and licks the head again, drawing a rapid inhalation as you stare down at him.

He continues like that, lapping the costly honey-gold combination off of you as he works his way down to your base. 

His eyes are half lidded, focused on his work tasting the sugary substance. You watch the gold flecks and honey disappear into his mouth and are absolutely captivated by the wet muscle darting out from between his lips. He’s about halfway down when he finally looks up at you with his grey eyes and tongue outstretched. You go slack-jawed. He’s gorgeous, and he looks so, so perfect, just like this. 

“Fuck, Karkat, you’re so _good_ ,” the words spill out of your mouth without control. He looks back down and licks again, over the top. “You’re just so perfect, don’t- don’t stop. I want you so fucking badly.”

You’re both lost in it, whatever this ridiculous moment is. You don’t want it to end. He pulls back from his calculated licks and takes your head fully into his mouth.

“ _Fuck_.” 

He doesn’t stop. He slides all the way down to the bottom, taking more of the confection with him. Some of the honey is dribbling down the corner of his lips. You want to lick it off his face.

He ignores it and pulls back. You watch as his lips blessedly suction around your dick as he goes back down. You cry out as they tighten, “Karkat, _holy fuck_.” You don’t really have words, just curses and his name spilling out of your mouth. Those lips around you, drenched in golden ambrosia, are better than you could have ever imagined. 

“You’re just so fucking amazing, don’t you know that? So fucking gorgeous, I can’t help myself with you.” You give in and slide a hand into his hair. You don’t help him along, you just rest it there, running fingers through it. 

He continues to mouth over you as you grow continuously incoherent. 

His phone goes off in his pocket and he pulls off you with a wet sound, completely jarred. 

The little bubble you’d created together bursts. 

You watch his face come back to reality. The haze surrounding your little getaway becomes harsh, glaring light. 

His hand scrambles for his phone. He reads the caller ID and then looks back up at you. “It’s my boss,” he says. One of his hands reaches up to wipe the honey down the side of his cheek. He peers curiously at it on his finger and then at you. Eyebrows pulled down, he sets his face and seems to come to a decision. 

“You should-- you should go, Dave,” he says. He sounds confused and looks incredibly torn. He ignores the call, but it doesn’t matter anymore. “We- I - I shouldn’t have done that.” 

You just stumble over your words, suddenly feeling ridiculous. The warmth of the wine is drained out of you both now. 

He stands and you step back further away from him. He runs a hand over his face. “You should… see yourself out.” He uncovers it to look at you and his face is torn but you can still see the dregs of arousal.

“Karkat, wait--” you start to say but he stops you. You can’t keep simmering like this, you’ll explode. 

“This was fucking ridiculous, okay? I don’t know what the hell came over me.” 

And then he leaves you there, naked in his dining room.

You hadn’t even really kissed him. 

But he did call you Dave. 

You’ll take it. 

 

\---

When you go home that night and shower off the residual sticky-sweet leftovers, your mind is plagued by thoughts of his tongue on you. You desperately work yourself into a frenzy and wonder if Karkat is doing the same, stroking himself to the thoughts of his mouth on you. The very thought of it throws you over the edge and you come all over your hands. 

As you tread through your post-orgasmic brain you come to the conclusion that you need to see Karkat again, even if it kills you. 

—

You’re pretty sure there are some guidelines on how many days after a blowjob you should message someone, but right now you can’t find it in yourself to care as you pull up his number given by his boss and compose a text. Or several, rather. 

hey

its me

dave 

HOLY SHIT HOW DID YOU GET MY NUMBER

your boss gave it to me shes a homie

FUCK

yeah 

anyways i kind of felt bad about how the other night left off 

ITS FINE 

WE SHOULD GO OUR SEPARATE WAYS AND FORGET IT

see the thing is 

i really just cant do that karkat 

WHY NOT

WHY DO YOU HAVE TO MAKE THIS MORE DIFFICULT THAN IT NEEDS TO BE

because im kinda into you

and i was kinda hoping you might also be into me

if that wasnt obvious by now

DONT GET ANY IDEAS ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED. I STILL CANT BELIEVE I DID THAT

did what

YOU KNOW WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT 

either way i never got to return the favor 

YEAH AND THATS FINE 

i dunno doesn’t feel like it to me 

i wanted to make it up to you

so im inviting you over for a personal tasting at my restaurant

IS THIS A JOKE? THIS STOPPED BEING FUNNY THE FIRST TIME. IT STOPPED BEING FUNNY BEFORE THE FIRST TIME. 

im bein real here

no bedazzled honeydick shenanigans this time

just you me and some fucking good food

SOMEHOW I DONT BELIEVE YOU

yeah well i guess youll have to find out for yourself then 

AND IF I SAY NO?

then ill ask you over twitter and watch from afar as eater mag lights on fire

YOU WOULDNT 

really now

were gonna play this game 

you should know by now 

UGH OKAY YOURE RIGHT FINE

WHEN DO YOU WANT ME?

i always want you

SERIOUSLY DAVE

okay okay for reals itll have to be after hours so kinda late

FINE

so this fri at 11

does that work

UNFORTUNATELY IT DOES

so its a date right

UGH

yes?

 

Karkat doesn’t reply again. Well, he didn’t say it _wasn’t_ a date. 

—-

You’re honestly a little bit worried he won’t show up. You had your chef set up everything beforehand so it’s all laid out on the expansive kitchen counter along with two chairs and table brought in from the dining room. It’s set for two, and the building is otherwise empty save for you at the moment.

He finally texts you his arrival and you race out to the front door to receive him. 

You swing open the door. “Thought you weren’t gonna make it,” you grin at him. 

He turns to meet your eyes and there’s that simmering heat between you again. His gaze is far too intense. The corners of his lips are downturned in that scowl but his eyes read something else. The sleeves of his dark red button down are rolled up to his elbows. It turns the burner in your stomach up to eleven as the memories from a few nights ago come flashing back. 

If there was any fear that this wasn’t a date, it’s banished solely because he looks even better than the first time you saw him here. His physical presence douses you in a thick honey daze that flows straight into your stomach.

He blows past you through the door as you continue to stare at him. You inhale as he passes you and the scent of him is almost enough to bring you to your knees. “Yeah, let’s get this over with, you gaudy fuck.”

You come out of the trance he put you under. “I knew you couldn’t stay away.” He flashes a quick glare in your direction as you lead him through to the kitchen. You wonder if the memories from the other night are flashing through his head like they are yours. He spots the spread immediately as the doors swing open.

“Why the fuck are there two fountains? Dave, is that _lube_ in that fountain?” he turns to you angrily. Yeah, maybe you had gone a little overboard with the non-dick related dessert this time. Well, not that they aren’t dick related yet. Wait, this isn’t supposed to be about that. Stop it. 

There is both a melting dark chocolate, and as he had pointed at, a passion fruit lube fountain.  
Around the fountains is a dreamy fondue arrangement, with everything from angel cake to strawberries to brownies and more. 

You should have just said personal dessert tasting.

Your chef has learned to not ask questions at this point in your professional relationship. 

“Hey man, before I told you it was lube you said you liked it. Stop psyching yourself out.” To prove your point you step forward to the counter and make a show of sticking your finger in the lube fountain and then licking it off. You don’t miss the way he averts his eyes or how his cheeks darken a bit. That’s the ticket. 

“This is a bad idea,” he says softly, his eyes flashing towards and away from you. 

You turn to look at him and pull the finger out of your mouth, unsure if going up to him right now is a good idea, even if you really want to be as close to him as possible. You don’t want him to leave. 

“This is an incredible idea. Now sit your luscious tush down before I make it.” 

He huffs but goes to sit down anyways. He can act as indignant as he wants but he’s still here looking fine as hell and that has to count for something. 

You bring over the first plate of citrus-marinated oysters, but then instead of putting it on the table, you just watch him with the dish in your hands. Something is missing. 

You want to kiss him. 

“Dave?” 

You shake your head and the put the plate down, sitting down in the chair beside him. 

“Bone-apple-teeth,” you say and hand him one. Your fingers brush as he takes it from your hand and something like static zaps you, eliciting a quick intake of breath. 

His eyes zero in on yours again. As always, you are ever acutely aware of his gaze, though he can’t tell through the shades. The thought of him grabbing you face and actually looking into your eyes while he pounds into you makes you woozy. 

After what feels like many seconds he withdraws the shell and his hand from you.

Then you slide them both back down your throat, but you make a point to watch him as he swallows. 

“Wow, these are good. Where are they from?” 

“I had these little guys imported from New Zealand.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go for the Coffin Bay ones-- the price tag seems a bit more up your alley.”

“Yeah well it’s hard to watch someone sexy-swallow a whole pound oyster.”

“There isn’t anything sexy about eating oysters. They’re salty mucus balls.”

“You make everything sexy,” you say, really unable to stop yourself. 

He shakes his head with a quick eye roll. “Sure you didn’t buy them for the aphrodisiac effects?” 

“Well, I didn’t, but now that you mention it…”

“Shut up and give me another,” he smirks as you oblige him. This time he lets your fingers brush a second longer. 

You two are in the game and he is playing.

Finally. 

Honestly, eating mucus slime balls should not be that sexy, but he sure makes it work.

But now it’s time to turn up the heat. 

When you’re done you take the plate and put it back on the table and look at the actual course of meals that is laid out. Instead of taking one of those, you fill two plates with strawberries, marshmallows, and house macarons and run one under the melted chocolate and the other under the lube fountain. 

“What are you doing?” Karkat says from the table. You look to see his apprehensive expression but just grin at him.

“You should have known it was gonna be dessert for dinner when you walked in,” you say as you continue to thickly later the lube-syrup on to the plate.

“I’m not going to eat your desserts covered in your inapt artificial flavoring sauce,” Karkat growls.

“Aww c’mon don’t knock it till you try it, babe.”

You head back to the table and grin at him. He looks up at you with pursed lips. 

You make it look like you’re going to set one down in front of him and then instead slide over and set yourself in his lap.

He jumps and throws his hands out to the side. “What the hell are you doing?”

You rest gently on one of his thighs and set the plates down before turning your head over your shoulder to gaze back at him. “Just trying to feed you something nice, sweetheart.” 

“This is ridiculous. I can feed myself, asshole,” he snaps at you. 

In response you wiggle your hips a little in his lap, maybe edging on his crotch a bit. You hear a sudden, sharp intake of breath. “You can push me off if you want to,” you say and look back at the table. He doesn’t respond. The area where you are edged up on his lap isn’t enough. You want to push yourself back so you are flush with his body. 

“It’s not worth shoving your bony ass on the floor.”

Instead of responding, you lean forward and spoon a raspberry macaron into chocolate sauce, cupping your hand under it as you carry it back. In the same motion you turn so that you are sitting with both legs thrown over Karkat’s left side. 

He reaches up to take it from you and you jerk back. “No, I got this. Open wide, precious.” 

Karkat glares at you. “The pet names aren’t helping you with this condescending, childish stunt.” You just keep smiling and hold the chocolate dipped sweet close to his mouth. Without removing his gaze from your face he leans forward and takes a bite. 

His lips are bare millimeters from brushing your fingers. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Was that so hard?”

“Again, I’m not a fucking child. I can feed myself,” he sighs after swallowing. 

“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be as sexy,” you smirk and scoop the other half of the macaron through the chocolate sauce. You bring it back to him, and hold it out a few inches in front of his face. He rolls his eyes and leans forward, but at the last second you jerk your hand to the side and smear chocolate over the corner of his lips. 

You slide the other half into his mouth and his lips finally slip against your fingers. You almost fall out of the chair and have to withhold a satisfied moan. 

“Sorry, my bad. Let me get that.”

He shakes his head and goes to wipe off the smear himself but you catch his hand with yours. With your other hand you reach out and cup his chin. He swallows, almost in surprise, and then completely freezes. Now he looks like a deer in headlights. 

With your thumb you smear the chocolate in a poor attempt to wipe it away. “Oh, sorry,” you apologize again, though still smirking. “Here, this should do it.”

With that you lean forward and, with your hand still gripping his chin, run your tongue from the corner of his mouth across his cheek, beyond where you smudged it. Then you repeat the motion again, all the way across his cheek but slower. You can feel his breath on you in staggered releases. 

You lean back and with relief, take in his glazed-over expression and the way his jaw is slightly dropped open. 

You can’t help yourself. “I’ve been waiting to taste you,” you say in a half whisper. He’s just staring up at you, half in shock and half in arousal. You let your hand drop away from his face. 

“Dave,” he says in a soft, warning tone. He’s struggling to speak, like his tongue is thick in his throat. “Stop it.” 

Unfortunately, that’s not really an option now, and there’s no real force behind his words anyway. 

You pick up a marshmallow from the lube-covered plate. It drips down your fingers as you bring it back to him. 

“Dave.”

You just wait for him and inch your floating hand ever so slightly closer. 

He shakes his head, so you sigh and stick the whole thing in your mouth, making a point to lick all of the lube dripping down your digits. His lids widen ever so slightly at the appearance of your tongue.

You’re off your game again when his own tongue makes an appearance, quickly running over his bottom lip. If he were to look down now he would see how obviously hard you are, but it seems he’s having as hard a time keeping his eyes off your face as you are his. His hand reaches to take an iron-tight grip of your thigh that doesn’t help your boner situation, but he’s still distracted. 

It’s so hard to tear your gaze away from his face, but you manage to do so and pluck a lube laden strawberry. This time you actually put it to his lips and his eyes lock again with yours as he takes a bite. His lips mouth over your sticky fingers. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” you say in a strangled breath. 

You mournfully look away to take another strawberry, but this time as he bites it you run your thumb over his bottom lip, covering it in a layer of the passion fruit flavored substance. His tongue darts out after he swallows and licks it off in one slowed motion, sucking the air from your lungs as if he’d punched you.

His eyes are absolutely boring into yours like hot coals.

You’re still breathless, but you manage to speak. “I told you it wasn’t so bad,” you say, low and soft.

“I don’t know why I’m putting up with this absurdity,” he deadpans, his eyes still locked on your own.

You can’t help but smirk. “Because you like it, obviously,” you respond while picking up another sauced strawberry off the plate. Facing away from him, you stick it between your teeth. Some of the lube sauce runs down the side of your lips. You turn back to face him and see that glare bearing into you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, not this shit again,” he rolls his eyes, his aggravation plain as day. 

You quirk an eyebrow in response and your lips turn up at the edges around the treat in your mouth. You stand again and reseat yourself straddled around his hips. His eyes have not drifted from your face to see your glaringly obvious arousal. You lean towards him, your face inches from his. 

You struggle to make words around the berry. “Come and—“ you start to say but find yourself unable to finish as he’s grabbed your head and is pulling your face to his forcefully. Just like the other night, his tongue snakes into your mouth and takes the fruit. He pulls away to chew and swallow but his hands stay locked in your hair, holding you close to his face. 

You share that breathing space with him as he swallows and then pulls you back again to lick the lube streaked below your lips. He licks from your chin to your lower lip, agonizingly slow and rough. Your breathing is strained and you can imagine you must be looking at him with an absolutely wild look in your eye, all some kind of uncontrolled excitement. 

And then he finally, _finally_ , kisses you with all the subdued fury he’d been stockpiling since you first met. 

His mouth claims yours with an eagerness you aren’t expecting. Your lips smear together, sticky and sweet. His tongue slides over your bottom lip, following with a gentle bite. You’re both licking at each other, into each other. He tastes better than every Michelin star restaurant you’ve ever eaten at and you suck in potent breaths of him as your hands wrap around his broad shoulder and neck. 

“You are so fucking _obnoxious_ ,” he growls into your mouth between kisses.

You laugh in response, mouthing at the leftover licentiously-used fluid on him. He follows with biting your lip, cutting you off and invoking a staccatoed gasp. 

He’s still talking. “I can’t believe,” his hands tighten in your hair, pulling your head back as he chases the heaving inhalations between your lips. “I sucked your dick.”

You can’t help it. You release an unrestrained moan, elicited from both the pulling of your hair and recalling the memory. “It was ten out of ten,” you pant. “I can’t wait to return the favor.”

“I doubt you’d be able to appreciate it with your lack of palate.”

You grin anyways between his lips on yours. “Well I think you already taste great,” you pause and almost lose the rest of your statement in his mouth as he loosens his grip in your hair and you lean back forward into him. You gain control of yourself and pull away. “Though I think you would _feel_ even better,” and punctuate your statement with a roll of your hips straddled around him. 

“Oh, _fuck this_ ,” Karkat says and grabs two handfuls of your ass. He stands into the motion and shoves you bodily on the table. The silverware and plates clatter dissonantly, and somehow he managed not to seat you on on the plate of cooling chocolate. At least you think, but you’re so preoccupied with a mental victory chant. It’s probably the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you. 

Angry, determined hands are unbuckling your belt. Karkat continues to kiss you fiercely. _Oh, fuck yes._

He starts to yank down your pants and underwear, and you help him by rolling up your hips so you can help him. Now you’re getting somewhere. His hands float back up your thighs, and then jerk your hips so that you’re sitting on the very edge of the table. 

“Fuck, I don’t know what you’re about to do, but it doesn’t matter, because shit I have been waiting way too long for it. Goddamn, you just make me so hard.” Off-hand statements tumble out of your mouth between the furious press of his lips. 

He pulls away from kissing you and his eyes dart to the table. You mouth continues to move with escalating excitement.

“You are honestly still wearing too much clothes. I’ve been mentally undressing you since the first time I saw you. You are seriously hiding some incredible dad bod under there, aren’t you?” One hand leaves its grip at your hip as you let your mouth run. You’re distracted, staring up at his face. He leans forward to kiss you again. And then you feel it, his hand sliding between your legs and the press of a wet finger to your hole. 

He’d dipped his finger into the plate of lube, like the goddamn genius you knew he was.

“ _Raw me daddy,_ ” you gasp into his mouth as he pushes in. 

He separates from your lips and his other hand clasps around your mouth. “Don’t,” he says in a warning tone, his expression lit with restrained fury. 

It’s too hot. You moan into the hand clasped around your mouth as the other one pushes into you, and you struggle not to push away onto your toes on the floor at the harshness of it all. 

“God, of course you would be some kinky fuck,” you can hear the eye roll through his words. Somehow he maintains his impassive air despite the threat of his actions and set glare. 

“You like it,” you say into his hand and refocus your eyes on his face. You assertion is confirmed when he keeps his hand gripped over your mouth but undulates his finger inside you, earning another wrack of your body. It’s so incredibly intense, and all you can think about is how he’ll feel pounding into you. Which you really hope he’s intending to do. That or force you on your knees, you’ll gladly take anything he gives you. 

He starts to work you open, keeping his hand on your mouth. You don’t speak, just attempt to hold his searing gaze while he works your entire body with one digit and gripping the edge of the table like a lifeline. 

One finger becomes two. Your dick is unbearably hard between you both, just like you had told him. You want to say something to him, tell him that he’s doing this to you, that he’s making you like this. He turns you on, and you want him under your skin like the blood flowing through it. The perch at the edge of the table starts to become uncomfortable, but you don’t dare move or stop the proceeding. You’ve gotten this far. 

He gives one aggressive thrust of his fingers and leans forward so his lips are on your ear. “Is this what you wanted, you lurid prick?”

All you’re able to do is squeeze your eyes shut and nod, too busy absorbing the sensations he’s giving you. 

He releases the grip on your mouth and fists the hand in your hair, pulling you to kiss him again. You let him do it, and devour it. His lips speak a hundred things to you-- ‘You’re annoying’, ‘I hate you’, ‘I want you’, ‘I think I like you’, but right now most importantly ‘I want to _destroy_ you’, and he has to break away from the kiss because you start laughing.

He pulls away to scan your face and you watch his eyes move over yours, his fingers forcing your head tipped back and jaw slightly agape. “What is it?” he has huskily, stilling his other hand. 

“Just fuck me already,” you laugh up at him. He frowns. “Give it to me like you wanted to when you wrote your review.”

His face turns to a full-on stormy scowl. “Oh, you motherfucker,” he snaps and lets go of your hair rather forcefully.

One of two things could happen right now: One, he leaves.

Two, he stays and fucks your brains out. 

“You know I would have done it anyways,” he growls at you while his hands go to his belt. “But no, you just had to go and open your goddamn mouth…”

“You’re so hot when you’re mad. Kiss me, you beautiful asshole,” you let your arms wrap around his neck and pull him down to kiss you as he’s distractedly pulling away his pants. 

You don’t give him the opportunity to pull away and doubt your words with that, but he does reach around you one more time. You finally pull away from kissing him to see a hand stroking his gorgeous erection in front of you, a glistening sheen covering his dick and lightly purple-tinged lube dripping from between his fingers. 

You draw your eyes up his torso now to meet his one more time, and reach a hand down to wrap around his. His jaw is set and he gazes down on you with fiery determination. You can feel the lube spread through his fingers to yours as you help to pump him, squeezing his fingers to wrap harder around himself. He gasps a moan and doubles forward so his forehead pushes into yours. 

_I am going to suck that dick like a straw,_ you think to yourself, maybe say it out loud. It doesn’t matter, you already know the destination of his dick and it is definitely not going to be your mouth. At least tonight. You also might have said that out loud.

You continue to work his hand until finally he sobs a ‘Stop, stop, too close.’ Being able to push him to that is so hot it literally hurts.  
You pull the hand wrapped around his dick up and you are unable to contain your overjoyed grin as you lick the lubricant dripping down arm, starting from his wrist and working your way across his palm and up to the end of his index finger.

There it is again-- that startled, disbelieving gasp, coming out as soon as you slip his index and middle finger together into your mouth and clean them off in one suck as you pull his fingers back out. More lube smears from his other fingers across your face and on your hands.  
You pretty much live for the noise he made after that. 

“Dave,” he gasps, ever so slightly. The single word melts into your ear like sugar simmering into glazey caramel. 

“Fuck me like you mean it, Karkat,” you remind his frozen expression with a grin. He comes back to life and you find yourself flipped chest down onto the table so fast you can barely tell what happened. 

Two hands grip your hips tightly, and then you feel the intense pressure of him pushing inside you. With all the lube and working up, and a few nights of working yourself up with frenzied desperation at home on your own, he’s able to seat himself down to the base in one slick motion. You settle yourself on your forearms and let your head fall to the table with an extended curse. 

Karkat makes a similar sound behind you and those fingers dig in a little harder. Your own sticky digits clench together and you grind your fist into the white tablecloth. 

Some part of your brain that might be involved in the little bit of responsibility you have thinks, _This is really unsanitary, F rating for hella kitchen._

The rest of your brain is so intensely overwhelmed it no longer serves any function but to feel him inside you. He is so much better than you could have ever imagined or fantasized. The beautiful, thick cock that mirrors it’s husky owner pulls out to the tip and he says something you’re too blitzed to comprehend. 

You turn on your forehead to rest your cheek on the table, allowing yourself to look out of the corner of your eye at him. He’s gritting his teeth and his unintentionally sultry half-lidded eyes gaze down at you. 

“What was that, Kat?” your words slur, already love drunk off of him. 

“I wasn’t expecting,” he gasps, sliding back in a little and gritting his teeth like he doesn’t want to but can’t help himself, “You to be so _easy_.”

You laugh darkly and your palm opens to grab a handful of tablecloth. “I’ve lost a lot of sleep thinkin’ about you just like this.”

“Fuck,” Karkat rasps as he pushes back in all the way. He starts to work his hips, now actually fucking you at a slowed pace as he growls at you. “What fucking is it about you, Strider? How do you keep doing so this shit to me, when you just make me so _mad_?” The words are punctuated by the snap of his hips. It really is like he doesn’t want to do this but he can’t help himself, because you know if it’s feeling this incredible for you it must be goddamn ecstasy for him. You pushed him first and now he’s descending down the slippery slope to rapture with you against his will. His fingers on your hips grasp and relax undecidedly before they finally anchor into your skin like a lifeline.

He pulls out, maddeningly slow. It’s still not enough. You want him to take you apart. As much as he is willing to, rake his pleasure from you and melt you to pieces in the process. “Karkat, I might like you a little more than I should, but for the love of fuck would you just fuck me like you hate me right now?”

As you speak he slides back down to the base and freezes. “Damn you straight to hell, Dave.” After that it’s like his dick is off to the races. He loses it and drives forward, filling the room with the perverted sounds of him fucking you ruthlessly while your belts and pants tangle forgotten around knees and ankles. One hand ghosts up your back to wrap around your neck, right under your hairline. He presses down there with a squeeze and his fingers drive into your neck. You can pretty much ignore the push of your legs against the table with all the other sensations he’s giving you. 

There’s no way for you to touch yourself at this angle. At the unforgiving pace he won’t hold on much longer but you hope his aggravation will extend it, just in case this is the last time you get him. You hope not because you sure as shit owe him a couple of life sentences on your knees. 

“Karkat, Karkat, holy fuck,” you gasp out into the table as his hand squeezes around your neck. He feels so good, shit, you don’t want it to end. 

You can hear his breath starting to stutter. 

“Dave,” he growls, and with one terminal thrust he comes inside you with an iron grip on your hip and neck. 

Karkat gasps out and his body freezes after he finishes. “Holy shit,” he moans, and pulls out of you. You manage to push yourself off the table to see him stumble back and practically trip backwards into his chair, seating himself. His pants are still at his legs and he runs a shaking hand through his hair. “I can’t believe I just fucking did that,” he says mournfully. 

You take a step towards him but pull your own pants up first. “What’s the problem, sweetheart? You were fucking amazing. That was fucking incredible.”

“Dave, _please_ ,” his hands slip down to full on double facepalm. “This is so ridiculous. What the hell do you even do to me?” he speaks into his hands, muffling his words. 

You find yourself frowning. You want him to be touching you, post-coitally blissed out together. With your pants no longer awkwardly between your legs you step over to him and take one of the hands on his face to squeeze in your own.

He looks up at you dolefully before his face falls into scowl. “You got what you wanted, Dave. Can you please just leave me to wallow in my own goddamn depravity now?”

Now you actually frown at him. “That wasn’t everything I wanted.” 

He laughs, disbelieving. “What more do you want from me, Dave?”

You smile. “That.”

His eyebrows scrunch together and he looks up at you, confused. “What?”

“My name. I want you to keep saying my name.” 

The scowl melts off his face. 

And then he starts laughing, hard, and doubles over to lean his head to you stomach. You squeeze his hand and wait. 

“Oh my fucking god,” he wheezes out finally. “Of course you would also actually be some sentimental bastard. Holy shit.” 

“I ain’t ever lie to you, ‘kat. Plus I’m not the kinda guy to toot it and boot it. You’re pretty cute.”

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs and looks up at you. “You actually want to go out with me?”

“Uh… no shit, man,” you deadpan. 

“Fuck. You will never stop being full of surprises, won’t you,” he observes more than questions. 

“That’s the idea?”

He shakes his head and reaches down to finish pulling his clothes back on before speaking. “Holy hell. Well, alright Dave Strider. You get an actual date.” He holds up a single finger. “But I have one condition.” 

Your face splits into a smile but then is immediately quashed. “...I’m listening.” 

“We’re gonna redo your entire restaurant. Including the menu.”

“ _No_.”

“Do you want to see me again or not?”

You consider it. “You’ve got a deal, but we’re keeping the lube sundae.”

He opens his mouth to refuse it but you’re already too busy kissing him. 

\----

**ONE YEAR LATER**

You and Karkat hang up the Michelin award in the restaurant (now renamed _The Penrose_ ) lobby to the applause of your staff. You give a short speech before seeing everyone off for the evening. 

You’ve got a hot date with a very, very special man. 

Just like a year ago, there’s a white tablecloth spread in the kitchen. This time it has two immaculate steaks, a bottle of his favorite malbec, a french bread and salted butter radish appetizer, and finally, a single special-commission raspberry chocolate cake. 

You’ve never had a problem surprising him over the last year of your relationship.

But this time, you know the gold ring baked into the cake will be your best one yet.

**Author's Note:**

> I live-jammed this for the [Karkat Thirst Server](https://discord.gg/CM46F39). If you liked it, are 16+, and love Karkat, come kick it with us!
> 
> I am intending for there to be an epilogue, with absolutely more mess.
> 
>  
> 
> Rest in peace Jonathon Gold, you were a Los Angeles symbol and are already sorely missed.


End file.
